Unbroken
by Lynn Saunders
Summary: She remains unbroken.


Title: Unbroken  
>Author: Lynn Saunders<br>Rating: PG-13  
>Classification: Carol POV, Vignette, Caryl, Angst, UST<br>Spoilers: Through 'Too Far Gone'

Their separation burns like a hot knife and settles into a dull ache in her sternum, thumping out of synch with every heartbeat. She has never known such regret. In her exile, days are filled with careful preparation for her survival. In that dark hole, for days thinking no one would find her, she decided she wanted to live. Nothing changes now. The loss of her prison home has pierced her to the core, but she has no time to be sick with loneliness. Daydreaming is a luxury she cannot afford.

But in the night, she dreams of the grit under her nails, cold cement beneath her, mouth like sandpaper from thirst, and he never finds her. She wakes startled and sweating, reliving the terror that she would never be located in time, too weak to escape on her own, a prison dungeon her grave. Now she sits up and quietly slides out of her hammock, reaching for her canteen and letting the water bring her back from that nightmare and into this one.

No, she wasn't left to rot in that dank place. She felt him nearby, steps pacing outside the door. And then, a sliver of light, his rough fingers on her face, relief, and being lifted into his strong arms. She slipped her fingers around his neck, barely holding on, head lolling against his chest, and, she thinks, he murmured I thought I'd lost you. But maybe she said it. He carried her through the maze of hallways and laid her in her bunk, giving her sips of water as she drifted to sleep, sweet sleep. He would not leave her side.

Now everything she gained in the precious months of calm that followed seems small and far away. She thinks of her Polaroid picture, Daryl sitting on the step below her, sharing fresh slices of his apple. Smiling and normal. The memory is so fresh she can taste it: the apple's tartness, Glen's excitement over his find, Daryl's shying from the camera after the first shot. The photo is pinned inside the collar of her long coat, back at the prison. She'll never see that version of herself again.

She catches her reflection in the makeshift bedroom's mirror. Now the scars of the past few years stand out in stark relief against her pale skin. Her fragile spirit, delicate collarbones, thin frame.

Nine lives, she thinks. Stay safe, she whispers, and she flashes on Daryl in the candlelight of her cell, standing dangerously close, thumb skimming the nape of her neck. She could feel his breath against her collarbone, stubble scraping her cheek, his shoulders firm beneath her fingers, their embrace telegraphing both warmth and uncertainty. He hesitated, and the moment was gone.

She has only those fleeting memories, nothing concrete, desires palpable yet just out of reach. They both thought there would be more time. Now, she thinks, if he were only near, she would be ready to forge ahead with no thought of the future, only this moment, and the feel of him against her. Fireworks.

Hot tears sting her eyes as every loss of the last few years replays, memories tumbling together until they shatter. Yet, she remains unbroken. She feels a new, steely resolve sink in. She dresses quickly and silently, palming her knife. The window opens easily, and she steps out onto the roof, moving quickly on her hands and knees to retrieve the ladder stowed away beneath the eaves. Her eyes adjust gradually to the darkness, and all is quiet. There are no shadowy figures in the way. Carefully, she extends the ladder and waits five minutes more just to be sure. Then she makes a break for it, down the ladder and into the car, snapping the locks behind her. She grips the leather of the steering wheel in the dark, pausing only now to think about how she might be received upon her return.

A bloody hand fumbles against the passenger window, and she throws the station wagon into drive, tearing out of the abandoned parking lot and into the Georgia night. Tires grind on slick pavement as the rain pours down. The air is thick with the smell of wet earth and, underneath, the tang of smoke and gunfire, a darker, heavy, ominous scent. She can see streaks of bright hot flame even through the mist, and she pushes closer, swallowing her pride. The car is slowed by a steady stream of the undead, staggering through the remains of the front gate and framed by a white hot glow of smoldering ruin. No life is in sight. The prison has fallen, no hope of a future. She imagines the picture of that ordinary day on the D Block steps engulfed in flames. What is the flashpoint of a memory?

Boldly, she stares into the night. He must be out there somewhere. If you can come back from the things you've done, then she deserves to try. The prison's flames paint a reflection across the rearview mirror as she drives away in silence, determined to find him, to find them all.

lynnsaundersfanfic  
>.com<br>.com

Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.

USS Caryl's 1st Word Prompt Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge - Words Used: sick, loss, knife, scar, future, daydream, fireworks, cold, grave, silence, shoulder, rain, tears, home, smile.


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